


How to Hide Your Feelings (for 6,000 years)

by Raichel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley's just resigned to his fate, First Kiss, It takes a fraud of a psychic (also part-time dominatrix) to spur these idiots to action, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, but Aziraphale is filled with Gay Panic(TM), but generally probably fluff, some drama, these two are pining messes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-14 13:40:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20193187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raichel/pseuds/Raichel
Summary: Six thousand years is a long time to be friends with someone. Long enough, even, to fall in love with someone. Crowley and Aziraphale have each handled their feelings differently over all that time, for better or for worse. They've spent a long time keeping secrets, and after the apocalypse-that-wasn't something might very well finally give out.A look into Crowley and Aziraphale's respective experiences of pining and the things that they hid from one another, and the day they had to come clean.





	1. Method 1: Burying Feelings and Resignation

It all started, of course, in Eden. Standing on the wall, making conversation. Four words:

“I gave it away.”

And the angel had caught his interest. A good angel, a kind angel, an angel who would ask for forgiveness, not permission. Why hadn’t he thought of that? An angel who protected a demon from the first rain. An angel he could be friends with. 

He wasn’t sure, for a while, that’d he’d actually made a friend. But then there was the flood, and they were pushed together again. They spent more time together then, trying in turn to uphold the great plan and undermine it. More often than not this looked like saving as many as possible, just under drastically different reasonings. It still wasn’t nearly enough. But Crowley learned something very important: Aziraphale was much like him. Not too similar by any means, they were still diametrically opposed in many ways, but they could work together, and the angel was assigned to earth the same way he was. Aziraphale was, for many intents and purposes, his other half. They fit quite well together. 

Of course, it’s only natural to gain a fondness for your one peer on the planet, especially when he’s already and interesting person. Whatever the reasoning (and he had many justifications for himself and for hell), he was definitely friends with Aziraphale. They kept crossing paths over the years, here and there, and the longer time went on the more obvious it became that the angel was far better company than any human could be.

It hit him like a ton of bricks in Rome. Plenty had already been written and said about love, and, someone help him, that might be what the angel’s smile made him feel. He didn’t realize it, exactly, while spending time with him, but time with Aziraphale left a warmth, a joy, with him that nothing else did. Not even a really good, far reaching work of evil. He caught himself lingering on the thought of the angel’s smile, and had to swallow down a lot of feelings. This felt suspiciously like what he’d heard about love. 

He kept a close eye on these feelings going forward. They were nearly undeniable (and not for lack of trying). Days spent with Aziraphale were easily the best of a decade, even a century. He still danced around what, exactly, to call these feelings but he certainly cared for Aziraphale. It made the arrangement very easy. But, of course, the angel would never love him. Not really. He had no right to be cared for in return by an angel of all people. Obviously, he just had to bury the feelings deep and hope for the best. 

For the most part, that was enough. Crowley could live fairly comfortably following at Aziraphale’s heels, riding through levels of denial. Some days, it was a business acquaintanceship. Most days it was convenient companionship, or devoted friendship. But on the very worst days it became pure, unadulterated, unrequited pining. 

Fortunately he didn’t end up wallowing in his own futile infatuation with the angel very often, but when he did he often drank copious amounts of alcohol about it. The first time it hit was about a week after they met in Rome, when the realization first truly set in. After that it only hit him particularly badly every two or three centuries. 

For example, the last time he set to pining in earnest before the birth of the antichrist was in the early 19th century. Between temptations (with a miracle performed here and there, as per the arrangement of course) he settled in a tavern somewhere out in the West Yorkshire area, and set to stewing. Sometimes he was lucky, and got to suffer alone, in silence, but other times he got company. Perhaps he looked pitiful enough to be interesting. Or the place was packed. That day, he had company. A woman sat down beside him at the bar. Already a bit unusual in this time and place, her attire was pushing the envelope of gender norms. He had more than a little respect for that, and he had more than a little alcohol in him by that point. Maybe that’s why he humored her when she started talking.

“You’re causing some concern, sir,” she told him, though the quirk of her eyebrow and the hint of a smirk suggested she wasn’t too concerned herself. “No one has seen you before, and you’ve been here several hours.”

“People don’t pass through this town?” he retorted, “Don’t worry about it, I’ll be gone by morning.”

“What brings you through town?” she pressed him.

“Sewing evil.” some days he really couldn’t be bothered to make something up.

She nodded, the smirk gaining more traction, and took a sip of her drink.

“I’ve certainly been accused of such myself,” she told him. 

“How’d you manage that?” he asked, trying to get a proper read on her. So far as evil went, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was gambling, fighting, drinking—

“Seducing women.”

He wasn’t expecting that. After a few drinks he always forgot how much people could hate non-conformity.

“Oh. Well, that’s not so bad. Is there a trick to it?” he added.

“Beg your pardon? Men do it every day.”

“Well, sure, but how do you get past all the…” he gestured vaguely.

“Past the…?” she mimicked his gesture, face painted with a mix of exasperation and bemusement. 

“The- the baggage,” he found a suitable word, “all the social whatzits. Surely there’s some complications?”

“It’s not so difficult as you seem to think,” she retorted, and oh, she was getting colder. He’d insulted her, which wasn’t uncommon, but this might be a misunderstanding.

“See, it’s just that I’ve been trying to seduce— no, that’s way too strong a word, but there’s this man, and I can’t possibly imagine he’d be interested in me. Even if he might, I definitely can’t imagine actually telling him—!” Crowley spluttered at his own nerve, suggesting he might ever do such a thing. The woman’s eyebrows had raised. 

“Well, I don’t know much about the romantic affairs of men,” she admitted, “unless from their wives.” she threw back some more of her drink.

“Has it worked for you?” he asked after a passing moment of silence between them, “How do they usually respond, if you tell them, you know, how you feel?” He'd drained his drink by now, and wasn’t feeling too bad. He hadn’t had a frank conversation like this in several centuries, between long naps and societal prejudice. Never with a woman.

“They take it well enough,” she muttered, “I’ve gotten very good at reading how interested they might be. The hard part isn’t getting close, it’s keeping them.” her eyes had glazed over now, and, though it wasn’t very demonic of him, he felt a knot in his gut. He had always been a bit softer for the nonconformists, and, hell, even the idea of losing Aziraphale…

“I’m sorry,” he told her. She swallowed more liquor down.

“I suppose it's to be expected at this point. I’m never more than an affair. A woman without a husband isn’t worth much. I might have fallen to the allure of stability myself, were men not so repulsive.” He was nowhere near attached enough to his gender to take such a comment personally. “But then again, maybe not,” she added. 

“Perhaps you’ll get lucky one of these days,” he told her, “find one who doesn’t need a husband.”

She scoffed, but seemed to accept the well-wishes.

“And perhaps your man will be more accommodating than you expect,” she returned, and they tapped their glasses together. But his was long empty, and he had probably had enough drinks at any rate. At least the ache of unrequited pining had dulled.

“I should go,” he said, getting to his feet. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you—” hecut short, and she was kind enough to fill the space,

“Anne,” she introduced herself, shaking his hand.

“Crowley,” he replied, before turning on his heel and sauntering out of the tavern. He left behind a demonic miracle, that was absolutely to assist her in her reportedly sinful ways and not in any way influenced by his sympathy for her. She would get lucky, find a love to stay with her, and they would be a horrible influence together. Or something. And they would struggle, which he would absolutely take credit for if hell asked (but they wouldn’t, and really there were just some things that were unavoidable).

* * *

When he wasn’t pining, then, he was simply devoted. In Paris, at the globe, in the blitz, and so many places in between he served Aziraphale with the devotion he’d once afforded God. He would never say it aloud, of course. He barely admitted it to himself. But privately, in those moments where Aziraphale was in danger or gave him one of those _looks_, he knew he would do anything for the angel. He’d long since learned to balance those acts of - _eugh!_ \- _good_, with demonic acts. At the slightest provocation he would do anything for him. Anything at all. But he would still never dare tell his secret.

He’d tested those limits once, with the holy water, and been horribly burned. He’d mis-judged the angel; Aziraphale would not do for him what he might do for the angel. Crowley would never say this surprised him, that wouldn’t be quite right. But it cut off hope of progress. He would linger forever at Aziraphale’s side. Watching. Protecting. Loving. But never admitting anything. Even when Aziraphale appeared in the passenger seat of the Bentley, thermos in hand, Crowley had no hope. He went to fast, after all.

The status quo had done well enough since Eden, it could serve him till the end times.

* * *

But then things got a little more complicated when Hastur handed him a basket in the dead of night. The end times are far more pressing in practice than in theory.

Everything got more complicated, obviously, with earth’s days being numbered, but when Crowley’s heart dropped, sickening like a free-fall carnival ride, as the weight of the basket fell into his hand in that graveyard, there were a handful of things he was acutely aware he would miss when the eleven years were up. In no particular order, these things were alcohol; his car; the poor, unsuspecting, unpredictable humans; and Aziraphale. A thought occurred to him quickly enough to be embarrassing: if the angel was ever going to know how he felt, there were only eleven years to tell him. 

He was wondering, as he sped through the dark, foggy woods, trying to call the angel up, if he might tell Aziraphale right now. Everything was going to shit, anyway, what could it hurt? But the call didn’t go through, and he barely missed wrecking his precious car. By the time he did reach Aziraphale over the phone he’d lost his nerve entirely. There was only one option: stop the apocalypse. The alternative was too much to bear for reasons too numerous to list.

He stood on the precipice the next night, sitting in Aziraphale’s flat, warm, and cozy, and full of wine. It was so good just to be there, together, after the horrible isolation and existential terror of having to hand off the initiator of the apocalypse that he didn't want to happen. Here it was less scary. Very nearly less real. He could pull Aziraphale around to see things his way: remind him of the best of earth, the worst of heaven. The horrors of _eterni-tay_. (He could hide it under the booze, ignore it in the safety of the cluttered shop, but eternity scared him most. Dingy, crowded, lonely eternity.)

He was too busy trying to talk Aziraphale into averting armageddon to seriously consider telling him the truth. And yet, his affection for the angel burned bright as ever. He realized belatedly that he was grinning like an idiot at Aziraphale’s simple “I’ll be damned!” How could he not? Even the end of the world was better with him. He could really believe, in that moment, that they could stop this. It would be ok.

Crowley got to see so much more of Aziraphale over those eleven years, watching Warlock (even if that turned out to be a mistake in the end). He could still keep his feelings comfortably buried, but it was different. At least a little. Compared to millennia of only seeing each other every few years, this was near constant interaction. At his lowest, he was grateful he got to spend so many of the world’s last days with Aziraphale. At his highest, he was absolutely certain that the one good angel in all God’s creation could absolutely avert the apocalypse. No matter what, he loved Aziraphale (even if he’d hesitate to call it that). But even full of so much adoration, and in such close contact, he was able to keep the really bad pining down. Mostly. He knew better than to show his hand to Aziraphale. (A demon knows better than to show their hand to anyone, for that matter.) He could keep it all under the surface. He always had. This was simply a means to an end: stopping armageddon. They’d keep the boy from coming into his powers, and go back to the old status quo, no problem. This extended time together wouldn’t last, and that would be fine. Probably. They’d get through this, and everything would go back to normal. 

He’d keep his secrets forever at this rate.

* * *

But then they averted the apocalypse. Not to mention they nearly _didn’t_ avert the apocalypse. And all of a sudden, sitting side by side at the Ritz, it was harder than ever to keep those ancient secrets. Crowley could swear he adored the angel more than ever. Here they were, together, safer than they’d ever been, still coming down from the highs of saving the world (not to mention each other’s lives; thanks for the tip, Agnes), and this was easily in Crowley's top five greatest moments of all time. In fact, it was likely number one. (And that was saying something when you’ve made stars and seen the garden of Eden.)

When he returned to his flat, and Aziraphale to his bookshop, Crowley was left nearly incapacitated by his own feelings. They weren’t sharp with regret, like when he drank them away, but they weren’t the least bit deniable either. Overwhelmed by love, affection, pride, and the burning desire to stay as close to the angel for as long as possible, what’s a demon to do?

Lord only knew what might happen if he was honest with the angel. The best and worst case scenarios dashed through his mind, but he didn't dare linger on either. He’d lost Aziraphale for a moment there, and it was the greatest pain he’d ever felt (though it was neck and neck with falling). He couldn’t do that again. Crowley couldn’t stand to lose the angel forever without ever saying anything. He couldn’t stand to lose the angel forever because he said something, either. 

He could keep it all down, still, to manageable levels. He wasn’t quite so desperate to risk that honesty. Not yet. Not now. But all the same he’d gotten more honest with himself, and that was a dangerous thing. He loved Aziraphale, but he could keep that secret. He had for millennia, he could keep it up for a few more. Maybe. (He had a nagging suspicion he was more likely to slip up one day, under the light of a particularly bright smile, or a few too many glasses of wine.)

He did well enough, adjusting to his new emotional status quo. He saw the angel about as frequently as before the almost-pocalypse, and adored him all the while, but to tell him wouldn’t be worth the risk. This was too good, as it was.

It wasn’t until about three months after armageddon’t that Aziraphale sat across from him at lunch, distracted and fidgety. He couldn’t help but ask,

“Something wrong, Angel?”


	2. Method 2: Pretend it Never Happened

It all started, of course, in Eden. Standing on the wall, a snake slithering up to make conversation. Eight words:

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”

A strange turn of phrase, it had caught Aziraphale’s attention. Not to mention, it was spoken by a demon. Aziraphale hadn’t actually met a demon before, only heard about them in warnings and whispers. Fallen angels. But far from the warnings of murderous, vengeful, downright nasty demons, this was a casual demon, a friendly demon. A demon who started a conversation, not a fight. A demon he could easily extend God’s infinite kindness toward and protect from the first rain. For all he knew, demons might dissolve in water. A demon he might could be friends with.

Azirpahale didn’t really think of Crawly as a friend, however, until they started running into each other regularly. The demon, soon Crowley, was clearly his counterpart. His foil. And certainly he was evil, wily, scheming, but he wasn’t terrible. Their paths crossed most often where their work converged, in the beginning. The flood, for example, or Golgotha. Aziraphale almost expected an earthbound demon to be sewing the ultimate sins, leaving evil, destruction, maybe fire and brimstone in his wake, but that never seemed to be the case. When their paths first started to cross it seemed Crowley carried a particular brand of demonic mercy: a plea to save the children, the gift of knowledge to a poor man doomed to die. The gift of knowledge to humanity. 

Crowley was demonic, of course, and as such was inherently evil and opposed to Aziraphale, surely, but even so, he wasn’t quite _bad_. Aziraphale hesitated to think too long on it, let alone say it, but Crowley was marginally more similar to Aziraphale than the angels up in heaven, simply through shared experience. (Certainly heaven wouldn’t take kindly to that idea.) Still, he’d come to think of Crowley a friend, in his most sentimental moments. At least a work acquaintance. 

By the time they met again in Rome, Aziraphale had grow to miss the demon. He didn’t realize it, wouldn’t have dared consider it, but seeing that shock of red hair and dark clothes across the room gave Aziraphale a small patch of familiarity he hadn’t had for years. He rarely did anything to warrant visits from any angels working upstairs. That first lunch together was one of the best Aziraphale had yet had. As much as he enjoyed food (and he really, really did) it got lonely after many years eating without company.

Even then, as it started to dawn on him that seeing the demon brightened his day, Aziraphale chalked it up to heavenly love. He loved all God’s creatures, and surely demons were included in that anyway. He and Crowley were, at most, friends. 

It was the first time their paths crossed after the black knight incident, in a tavern a bit off the beaten path. They shared a drink or two, a habit they were slowly getting into. Crowley got that self-satisfied smirk, weaving a tale. His small glasses slid down his nose a bit, and the lamplight hit those golden snake eyes. Aziraphale’s corporeal heart stuttered, hit with the idea of drawing close, the feeling of the demon’s lips against his… For the smallest fraction of a second, that sounded like a fabulous idea, before the panic set in and set in hard. That was absolutely ludicrous. Angels barely went around kissing anyone, let alone their natural enemies. Heaven would be _appalled_! Surely it was the drink, or he’d been too close to humans for too long. Aziraphale swallowed hard, hoped nothing had shown on his face, and threw back some more beer.

Thereafter he would be hit, every so often, with these waves of affection. Each time he would toss them away or stuff them down, of course. Aziraphale was absolutely not in love with a demon. That would be absurd. Most of the time that was very easy for him to believe. He and Crowley were friends, at best. Casual acquaintances. After all, demons likely couldn’t even feel love. Perhaps, he tried to convince himself as he eyed Crowley up and down in a cell in revolutionary France, this was simply some lustful influence demons had, and his own corporeal form was becoming more susceptible to it with time. That was it. 

He came up with many reasons for his occasional bursts of feeling that went beyond universal, angelic love. Those affectionate, or romantic, or rarely bordering on lustful thoughts and feelings were surely not his own, but born of some other circumstance. It was very simple. Humanity was getting to him, or he had happened across one too many romantic books lately, or the demon was trying to seduce him for his own gain, any number of things.

The warm feeling in his chest when Crowley handed over his books, saved from the demonic miracle bombing, was a bit harder to explain. It was different from holy love, but similar somehow. Azirapale couldn’t shake it or push it down, even through the whole ride back to the bookshop. Even the next morning. This feeling of affection lingered, stubbornly, and instead of squashing it as per usual Aziraphale had to set it aside and try not to think about it. But, perhaps Crowley had some good in him (he had of course suspected this for millennia). Perhaps if Crowley was good, it wouldn’t be so bad to love him. Maybe. (Heaven would still be furious.)

This nagging feeling of affection that Aziraphale couldn’t quite shake forced his hand with the holy water. He’d tried to forget the request entirely, distracting himself with human ideas, like the Gavotte, food, and poetry. It took a couple decades for him to make peace with it, but the little voice of affection, having found a better foot to stand on, kept nagging at him. Crowley had trusted him, and done him such favors over the years. Did he care about the demon enough to repay the favor? There was still a lot he wouldn’t dare admit, but, he supposed, he could admit that much. He cut off Crowley’s ridiculous heist. He handed over the holy water. He prayed, though not to God (he doubted she'd care) but to no one in particular, that Crowley would never use it.

* * *

Then the call came in from Crowley, as did a warning from Gabriel: armageddon was nigh. That first day after the delivery of the antichrist was the most time Aziraphale and Crowley had spent together in centuries. Drowning their fears in food and drink. In conversation. For most of their time together Aziraphale was wrapped up in the implications of armageddon, but then he slipped up.

“Well, I’ll be damned!”

The most beautiful smile broke across Crowley’s face, and that affection swelled painfully in his heart again.

“It’s not too bad, once you get used to it,” Crowley replied, and a spike of angelic guilt shot through him. Think of heaven, think of how out of place these feelings are. He had to remember his responsibilities. His face fell, the combination of guilt and affection turning his stomach in the worst way. And right after all that wine.

* * *

He saw much more of Crowley while they worked together from their opposing sides, watching Warlock for those eleven years. All the more time together, all the more moments for his affinity for the demon to raise its ugly head (oh, but that was rude to such a lovely emotion; it was really quite beautiful, if complicated). He never considered mentioning any of this to Crowley, of course. He was still quite adept at pushing the feelings away, shutting them down. An angel couldn’t love a demon in good conscience. It was happenstance, or demonic power. It was ridiculous. And besides, it wasn’t like Crowley could possibly feel the same. What self respecting demon would? He may have given some advice to young Warlock that was a little too close to home (“Sometimes we love someone particularly because those around us don’t.” “Love isn’t always sensible, young Warlock.”), but nothing more than that. After all, he had to focus on averting the apocalypse. To save the humans, and the books, and the sushi. Afternoons in the park with Crowley hardly factored into it at all.

* * *

But then the apocalypse didn’t happen. Only barely, of course, it was a very close call. It had been a long, hard road back to a table at the Ritz, but they had made it. Here they were, side by side, and Aziraphale found himself once again overflowing with love for the demon. It had snuck up on him, gradually, hidden under the stress of trying to prevent armageddon. A little at the paintball range, a little dropping off Anathama, a lot on and around the airfield. He started to notice it, really, staying in Crowley’s flat the night after armageddon’t, but had chalked it up to the high of saving the world, and pushed it aside. He still managed to keep it just below the surface at the Ritz, but when he finally returned to the bookshop he found it lingered worse than usual. He wanted desperately to return to the status quo. Back to suppressing flares of emotion. And yet, the whole world was just a little different now, and he found that he missed Crowley a tiny bit already. It was harder than expected to finally part again, after so much time together. For millennia they met each other sporadically, separating without any idea when they’d meet again. Now that uncertainty nagged at him. Perhaps he would see the demon again soon. It’s not as though Heaven could hate him any more than they already did.

Oh, that made a lot of things a little harder to ignore.

One of the particularly nice changes after the almost-pocalypse was that Aziraphale found himself with a few more earthly friends than he’d had in a long time (he’d last been so social when he frequented those gentlemen’s clubs). He’d grown especially fond of Madame Tracy. It was only natural after sharing a corporeal form for several hours. She was someone with nearly as much life experience as a human could have, and absolutely lovely to talk to. They frequently had tea together. 

After several chats together, about three months after armageddon’t, Madame Tracy took a sip of tea and posed a peculiar question,

“That’s not your wedding ring, is it?” she asked, indicating his pinky. Aziraphale only barely managed to swallow his tea without incident. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, I just thought it would be an awfully strange place to wear it. Do you not have one?”

He tried to set down his cup as gently as possible, and cleared his throat of the tea that didn’t quite make it down without incident.

“I’m not married,” he pointed out.

“Really? I could’ve sworn—“

“You were at least partially aware of my thoughts and memories,” he pointed out, “how could you possibly think I was _married_?” what woman, in all of heaven and earth, could she possibly think he’d settled down with? For that matter, she had enough access to his mind, why would she think he would settle down with a woman?

“I suppose you’re right, I’ve never been married either. I can’t really hold it against you. But that demon—“

“Crowley?!” Aziraphale was lucky he hadn’t taken another sip in the meantime. That could’ve gone quite bad. “I-I’m not— why would you—? He’s— I’m—“

“Don’t try and tell me you don’t love him,” Tracy said, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t!”

“As you said, I was aware of your thoughts and memories. And you don’t make a living as a phony psychic without knowing how to read body language, darling.”

Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth far too many times, trying to think of how to explain himself. The only time he’d felt more scrutinized was when the almighty asked about his sword.

“Per-perhaps I _love_ him,” Aziraphale said, tentative, “but I’m not _in_ love with him. It’s simply angelic love! I care very deeply about all of God’s creations.”

“Do you care very deeply about the was all of God’s creatures hips move?” Tracy asked, taking another slow sip of her tea. Aziraphale scowled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you care very deeply if all God’s creatures think you look nice?”

“Now, hang on—“

“Do all of God’s creatures call you ‘Angel’ affectionately?”

“I am quite literally an angel!” Aziraphale retorted, not enjoying how his corporeal face was heating. “I am not in love with Crowley! We’re… friends, perhaps, but that is all.”

“If you insist,” Tracy relented with a tilt of her head.

“I do.”

“How would you feel if Crowley was in love with someone else?” she asked, leaning a little closer. Aziraphale flinched.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I— I’m not even sure demons can feel love.” he tried very hard not to remember how Crowley talked about children, small animals, particularly impressive old trees.

“It’s only a hypothetical,” Tracy assured him, but the hint of a smirk at the corner of her mouth was starting to give her away. He could read body language, too. 

“Who would he even fall in love with?” Aziraphale said. He could barely keep eye contact with her now.

“Oh, I don’t know. A human, a demon, an angel.” That last word felt like a knife twisting in his heart. Not only was it unpleasant, it was not a good sign. “Anyone could be fair game, I’d assume. Have you ever talked about that sort of thing?”

“Never,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Perhaps it’s time,” she offered. “you’ll never know anything if you don’t ask.”

“Perhaps…” he echoed, but he’d never been good at asking questions, and the answer could destroy him.

Still, the mere thought of Crowley loving someone, unbeknownst to Aziraphale, had his stomach twisting and turning. He couldn’t let the idea go. It made him nearly so nervous he was starting to be put off his food.

A few days later he was seated beside Crowley at lunch again (a nice habit they’d picked up after the world didn’t end). He didn’t even realize he’d been fidgeting until Crowley spoke up,

“Something wrong, Angel?”


	3. Method 3: PANIC

Aziraphale jolted at Crowley’s comment, having been absolutely lost in his own thoughts.

“Wrong?” he echoed, “No, no. Nothing’s wrong. Everything is just fine, my dear. So sorry.” He waved the comment away, and for a moment more they sat in silence. Crowley never looked away from Aziraphale, trying to read him. It didn’t help that the angel wouldn’t make eye contact. “Have you ever been in love?” Aziraphale finally asked, still not looking straight at him.

Crowley hesitated. He was becoming worse at lying to Aziraphale by the day, but he couldn’t be _that_ honest. 

“Well, ah… I suppose so,” was the answer he landed on.

“Oh,” was the angel’s simple response, and he seemed somehow downcast, though Crowley couldn’t imagine why. “Are— are you in love with someone now?” Aziraphale asked, cautiously meeting Crowley’s eyes.

This one definitely he couldn’t answer truthfully. But it wasn't like he could just _not answer_. His mouth opened and closed several times, and various guttural sounds bordering on vowels made it out of his throat as he tried to form a suitable answer. He was not successful.

“You do, then,” Aziraphale read him dead to rights. “I see.”

“W-why do you ask?” Crowley finally managed.

“Simply a curiosity my dear,” was the only answer he got. “shall we go?”

“O-of course,” Crowley stammered, still quite shaken. He followed Aziraphale in getting up from the table. “where can I take you?”

“I’ll be fine,” Aziraphale told him as they stepped out of the building.

“Anywhere you want to go, Angel,” he insisted.

“I can’t trouble you like that.”

“It’s no trouble,” he said, one hand on the Bentley’s door handle now, “you know that by now.”

“Just let me go, dear boy.”

Crowley knew better than to push it. He settled for asking, “See you soon?”

Aziraphale only nodded, already walking away.

* * *

Crowley gave it a week. Since armageddon’t they had seen each other roughly once a week, if not more, and it seemed smart to let Aziraphale make the first move. Only he didn’t. He tried to give the angel a call then, but got no answer, and the old phone in the shop had no answering machine. After nearly two weeks and at least five calls the demon’s patience had run out.

He stepped carefully into the bookshop, not wanting to startle the angel. When Aziraphale looked up Crowley couldn’t parse out the mess of emotions that crossed his face in barely a second.

“Hello, Angel,” Crowley said, throwing on a grin and sauntering over to him, “care for some lunch? I happened to be in the area, and—“

“Not today, dear,” Aziraphale responded with a half-hearted smile, turning back to shelving books.

“What about sushi?” Crowley pressed, taking the long way round to circle the angel and look him in the face again. “My treat.”

“I appreciate it, but I’m taking some time for myself right now.” was all he said before shuffling away again. Crowley followed after him.

“Angel, I’m sorry. Whatever I did to upset you, I’ll make it up to you, anything you want—“

“It’s not your fault dear boy,” Aziraphale assured him, giving him that smile again. But it wasn’t the right smile. Not the unbridled sunshine that could overtake the angel’s face, but closer to light filtering through rainclouds, once the rain’s stopped but the pavement’s still damp. 

“Perhaps I can try and cheer you up, then, if I can’t apologize? Or we could drown our sorrows in alcohol?” he offered, reaching desperately for a foothold. He couldn’t say the words “I miss you,” but perhaps he was a bad enough actor that they were painted all over his face.

“I’m perfectly content here. You’re free to go off and do whatever you like.”

“I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

“Surely you have other things you could be doing,” Aziraphale said, “you could spend time with your love?” there was no ice in the angel’s tone. The words sounded as kind as when he spoke highly of someone or admired the ducks, but that hint of sadness in his eyes turned the words into knives that drove deep into Crowley’s heart. He watched Aziraphale continue to putter around the shop. He was rooted to the spot, frozen in that comment. 

‘Stuck between a rock and a hard place’ would not be a bad way to describe his current position. Did Aziraphale know? Had he shown one too many emotions and ruined everything? No, wait, that didn’t make sense. Aziraphale didn’t seem to think he was Crowley’s “love,” as he’d put it. So why all the fuss? Had he crossed the line, turned against nature, as a demon feeling love? Was he still a demon in Aziraphale’s eyes, first and foremost? Why had this fucked everything up, and, more importantly: could he fix it?

Crowley spluttered, and returned to motion, slinking back up beside Aziraphale,

“S-sorry, what was that?”

“I’m sure your love can occupy you until I’m feeling more up to socializing,” Aziraphale reiterated, tone and smile still kind as ever. He meant it, and that was almost worse than if he was being petty. But that was it, his face had given it away. He was upset, somehow, about Crowley being in love.

“H-he— Y— they won’t talk to me at the moment,” Crowley said, and he wasn’t quite lying.

“They’ll come around in time,” Aziraphale hummed, finding passing tasks to busy himself with.

“I’m not sure. There seems to have been, um, a bit of a misunderstanding.”

“Communication is key in relationships. But perhaps Madame Tracy would better know what to—“

“I’m trying to work it out myself,” Crowley muttered, still studying the angel. He had to go for it, see if his suspicion was right. Baby steps. “Angel, you’re not jealous, are you?”

Aziraphale flinched, just barely, and stammered, fumbling for an answer.

“…You are?” Crowley realized, voice getting small. His glasses had slipped down his nose just enough that he could see a bit over top of them. “What does it matter to you that I’m in love?” he pressed, taking a step closer to Aziraphale. He couldn’t say it, could barely even hope that maybe, just maybe…

“It doesn’t!” Aziraphale insisted, “It shouldn’t. Really, Crowley, if you would just leave me alone—!”

Aziraphale marched off to another wing of the shop, leaving Crowley with no idea what to do. He was as desperate to do whatever the angel wanted as to never leave the angel’s side. It was like telling a sheepdog to leave the herd to fend for itself. Aziraphale kept trapping him without any idea what he was doing.

“Forever?” Crowley asked, dashing after Aziraphale. A hint of desperation snuck into his voice.

“No, not forever!” Aziraphale huffed.

“But for a while?” Crowley asked. No answer, which told him, “Probably, yes,” and Crowley didn’t like that answer. “Wha-what if I drop the whole love thing? I’m not in love, I never was. Really!” 

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Aziraphale snapped, and Crowley flinched back. “I could never ask something like that of you. I wouldn’t dare!”

“You don’t have to ask, I’m volunteering—“

“No, absolutely not! I couldn’t stand it if you abandoned something so important on my account. You have to be with the one you love, Crowley.”

Again, a rock and a hard place. The angel had _no idea_. (Aziraphale was, in fact, heavily preoccupied by the terror of how painful it would be to be permanently separated from the one you love, and realizing again just how strong these feelings towards Crowley could be. Crowley also had no idea how much of an asshole he was being to the angel.) Crowley decided to take another approach entirely.

“Y-you know, I never turned the question back on you,” he said, after a moment of silence so tense it might snap under the weight of a pin. “Have you ever been in love?” he asked, quiet. The voice of a child, reprimanded for asking too many questions. Aziraphale hesitated. The silence between them was pulled even tighter.

“I'm an angel, Crowley, I feel love for all things.” he kept his hands busy, and his eyes on his task. He didn’t risk a look at Crowley.

“Surely not all things,” Crowley retorted, “but what about being in love? You know—“

“Yes, of course I know,” Aziraphale snipped at him. “it was hard to separate out for a long time. I— I think I have been, though,” he admitted.

Crowley hesitated. He was inching closer to a point of no return.

“A-and now? Are you, um, currently…?” As Crowley trailed off you could practically hear the space between them groan with the tension. Aziraphale took a deep breath, eyes darting around the room before zipping up to finally look Crowley in the face again. They darted back away again.

“Perhaps,” was the short answer. Crowley’s heart was steadily climbing into his throat.

“A-Aziraphale,” Crowley started, and, oh no, he couldn’t turn back now, “would it change anything if, er, if I l-loved…you?”

The tension in the room snapped like an abused rubber band, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale panicky messes. The absolute shock that took over Aziraphale’s face was quickly mirrored by terror on Crowley’s face.

“O-or not!” Crowley backtracked, “If that’s a bad thing, I—“

“What?! A-are you— Please, don’t lie to me about this,” Aziraphale pleaded, grabbing Crowley’s hands, trapping the demon again. 

The pair stilled, staring intently at each other. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, the demon had to commit. Crowley swallowed hard.

“I love you, Aziraphale.” It was such a strange thing to have it said so plainly. He was still filled to bursting with swirling terror, fear, anticipation, but an immense pressure was lifted. After so many millennia he hadn’t even realized how heavy it had become.

Aziraphale, one the other hand, found the nerves, sadness, fear, stress, every emotion in him suddenly shifted into pure, unadulterated love and affection. Not the angelic, holy kind, but the sweet exhilarating kind, laser-focussed on Crowley. He had to respond. The terror in the demon’s face was mounting by the second. Six thousand years’ doubts, limits, judgements, hesitations had all crumbled away. 

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s lapels and yanked him into a kiss, pressing himself into the demon and aiming to share every ounce of love in him. 

Crowley tensed under the unexpected display of affection. It took a second or two to sink in what was happening. It hadn’t all gone wrong. Aziraphale was still here. Even closer than ever before! He never could have dreamed of any of this. He also couldn’t let it pass him by. He took the angel’s head in his hands, fingers intermingling with hair, and returned Aziraphale’s boundless enthusiasm. Six thousand years of adoration, affection, devotion, resignation, overflowed into so much passion. 

It took a long time for them to break apart. Enough time that hands migrated here and there, resting on a neck here, grabbing at an arm there, desperate to keep the other close. When they finally broke apart Aziraphale’s hands had found their way up to Crowley’s head, and the demon’s had somehow made it down near the angel’s hips.

“I love you too,” Aziraphale added, as soon as he had the chance.

“I would hope so, after ssssuch a display,” Crowley retorted, sly grin painted across his face. He wasn’t even bothered to be hissing.

“Well, it’s been quite a while,” Aziraphale pointed out, getting a chuckle out of the demon.

“I’d say that’s an understatement. You know, I never pegged you as a jealous angel.”

Aziraphale blushed, looking away for a moment.

“It’s really Madame Tracy’s fault,” he insisted. “she insinuated you might somehow be spoken for, and I suppose my imagination got carried away with all the lovers you might’ve had—“

“Don’t worry, Angel,” Crowley said, leaning his forehead against Aziraphale’s, “there’s only you. There’s only ever been you.” 

Aziraphale broke back out into a smile. That right, beautiful, blinding smile that lit up Crowley’s life.

“And there has only ever been you, dear,” Aziraphale replied, giving Crowley another, far calmer kiss.


End file.
